Page 73 of Flat Out
I stared at it, pulse spiking so hard I swore I could feel it in my fingertips. If I was right—if those sheets proved what Callum and I suspected—this wasn’t just my fight anymore. This was corruption in a whole new light, danger and destruction waiting to happen, and the kind of scandal that could either save Formula 1 or tear it to pieces.
And it was about to burn the whole damn paddock.
I shutthe door to my suite quickly, frantically searching the small space until my eyes landed on a plain manila envelope on the tan couch, almost unnoticeable.
My hands shook as I snatched it up, not even bothering to dry off properly. My towel was twisted around me and my damp hair dripped down my back.
I ripped the flap open and the setup sheets spilled out, crisp white pages covered in neat black text and an engineer’s blocky handwriting. I spread them across the coffee table, my pulse hammering like it wanted to crack my ribs.
I scanned the pages quickly before I paused and lifted a sheet of data. My hand trembled when I saw that the brake migration curve was flattened exactly like Callum had said. Brake migration is how the balance shifts from front to rear as I slow. It was supposed to be gradual, a curve that let the car settle smoothly. Flatten it, and every stop feels like slamming into a wall.
My forward bias was pushed absurdly far, logged as though I’d asked for it. Bias was where the braking power leaned. Toomuch on the front, and the nose dove like a battering ram, every correction ripping through my shoulders and neck.
And then there were the suspension settings. The packers were too aggressive, rebound rates so fast it practically screamed intentional. Packers were meant to control the travel of the suspension and then rebound its return. Too stiff, too quick, and the car didn’t absorb the hit—it punched it straight into my spine.
All of it, neat as you please, noted in the “driver preference” column.
Only, I hadn’t asked for it. Not once.
Bias and brake migration together were already bad enough. The nose would bite, the rear would let go, and in the wrong corner, that was a spin into a barrier waiting to happen.
Turn 5 flashed in my mind, the wheel jerking under my hands, the rebound rattling straight up my spine until my legs tingled.
Turn 9, where the rear stepped out, the correction so violent I thought my wrists might snap.
The endless adjustments in Sector 2, twitch after twitch, every lap stealing another fraction of my strength.
Add in the suspension—packers too aggressive, rebound so fast the car, as Callum described,pogoedlike a springboard—and it wasn’t just uncomfortable.
It was a goddamn death trap.
My mouth went dry.
I traced the lines with my fingertip, and phantom pain rippled through my body. The pounding in my shoulders, the numb tingle in my legs after every session, the fire crawling up my back with every violent bounce. I thought it was just me, thought I wasn’t strong enough. But this… this was proof that it wasn’t me.
It was them.
But who wasthem? Morel and his posse of bitch boys? The FIA wanting to end my career before it could take off? Luminis punishing me for breaking out of their mold as the picture-perfect female rookie?
My breath hitched. My knees nearly gave out, so I sank down onto the sofa, papers fluttering under my damp fingers.
I needed Callum.
Not just because I wanted him—though God, I did—but because he’d know. He’d see these numbers and know I wasn’t crazy, that this wasn’t paranoia. That it was real.
That someone was trying to end me, and clearly didn’t care if it was my career or my life.
Panic spiked hot and sharp, sending me scrambling for my phone. I snapped photo after photo, every page, every line. My thumb trembled on the screen, taking multiple pictures of some pages as I shivered. Front, back, margins, signatures, anything that could later vanish if these papers were stolen back or “lost” in some mysterious FIA filing mishap.
Click. Click. Click.
I didn’t stop until the entire envelope was cataloged in my camera roll. Until the proof was mine, safe in my pocket.
The knock at my suite door nearly stopped my heart.
I spun, shoving the pages back into the envelope and sliding it under the desk just as the door creaked open. Jules stepped in, hoodie zipped halfway, hair still damp from his shower. His eyes flicked to me—bare legs, towel slipping, chest heaving like I’d been caught red-handed.
And I almost was. Fuck, I needed to get out of here.
